No one knew where the howlpacks came from. The inquisition bristling with blades and silver say they understand this curse. But what is the good of a lie to sooth the masses when you’re living proof that their faith is misplaced. Maritte was angry. It was long past a fury that had a true direction. The scars on her arms had healed, but the scars on her mind had been there before they ever arrived. She spat, hot saliva impacting the ground next to the trail of blood, steaming lightly in the chilly Stensian morning. Force of will had gotten her this far, too much on her mind to stay in the wilds. But even though the full moon was waning, it’s call would bring her back again on baleful droning tolls like honey to her ears. Just like all those nights ago.
The church was confused. They knew the blessing of silver in form and spirit seared at the flesh of the wolf. But the moon in it’s austere brilliance pulled that savagery free, rending man and beast into a horror betwixt. Maritte didn’t see it as they did though. She pulled herself bodily over a branch, her torn and slack clothing catching on burrs and splinters as she approached the outskirts of Pallas.
She knew that it was silver that could destroy her. And that moon, in it’s own insidious way planned the same. She grit her teeth and stared at the wooden walls of the standing barricade. Hopefully they would be enough to protect the next one. She doubted it.